The April Winds Are Magical, And Thrill

Heaven Always Bears Some Proportion To Earth. The God Of The Cannibal Will Be A Cannibal, Of The Crusades A Crusader, And Of The Merchants A Merchant.

Nothing Can Be More Delicate Without Being Fantastical, Nothing More Firm And Based In Nature And Sentiment, Than The Courtship And Mutual Carriage Of The Sexes.

The Ship Of Heaven Guides Itself And Will Not Accept A Wooden Rudder.

More Than The Diamond Koh-i-noor, Which Glitters Among Their Crown Jewels, They Prize The Dull Pebble Which Is Wiser Than A Man, Whose Poles Turn Themselves To The Poles Of The World, And Whose Axis Is Parallel To The Axis Of The World. Now, Their Toys Are Steam And Galvanism.

Broader And Deeper We Must Write Our Annals, From An Ethical Reformation, From An Influx Of The Ever New, Ever Sanative Conscience, If We Would Trulier Express Our Central And Wide-related Nature, Instead Of This Old Chronology Of Selfishness And Pride To Which We Have Too Long Lent Our Eyes. Already That Day Exists For Us, Shines In On Us At Unawares, But The Path Of Science And Of Letters Is Not The Way Into Nature. The Idiot, The Indian, The Child, And Unschooled Farmer's Boy, Stand Nearer To The Light By Which Nature Is To Be Read, Than The Dissector Or The Antiquary.